


Night Vision

by mintpearlvoice



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, F/F, Light Bondage, Sex Pollen, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 06:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7212319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintpearlvoice/pseuds/mintpearlvoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a run-in with deadly sex drugs, Widowmaker offers Tracer an option: accept help from her nemesis, or wait for a teammate to arrive. A sensible person would make the sensible choice- but Tracer's always had a penchant for adrenaline-driven decisions and dangerous women, and Widowmaker might not be as unfeeling as she'd like Tracer to believe...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Vision

Time is a lot like gravity. Give it the slip and, whoosh, you're flying. Streaking through the underground tunnel, Tracer burns seconds with every levitating step. She tumbles into hairpin turns. Her boots touch moss- she zings off again, past decaying pipes and burnt-out signs. Not Talon, this time. Some gang of well-connected lowlifes in the catacombs under Paris- “Those sex-trafficking mercenaries won't know what hit them!”  
Woosh-click-bang-snap-  
It all goes black.  
In hindsight, she could have slowed way the fuck down. She senses it happening to her like a slow-motion replay, _Tracer's greatest cock-ups, now on BBC 4!_  
Tripwire at neck height. Skid into wall. Nerve gas releasing-  
yep, there's the stun grenade-  
And it all goes black.  


***  
The first thing Tracer thinks when she wakes up is, _Why can't I move?_

The second realization is that she’s really horny. Wake-up-thrusting-against-the-mattress horny. It even overwhelms her fear.

“At last,” a familiar voice purrs. Tracer would know those cultured French inflections anywhere. Any-when. Here, in the underground tunnels, they make her heart beat faster. Amelie was her mentor, an untouchable heroine; Widowmaker is just as beautiful, but even more frightening. She tries to pull away, and realizes she’s tied spread-eagle to the wall. Tracer raises her head and decides to be brave.  
“If you touch me, my team will kill you.”  
She draws perfectly manicured fingernails down Tracer's neck, scratching just enough to inflame her senses- what would it feel like to have those fingers at her breasts?  
“I think you would rather thank me if I touched you, mon cherie.”  
Tracer tries to shift her hips in subtle encouragement. She knows her cheeks must be bright red as she tries to gain control over her body. "What did you do to me? I'm- I can't move, I can't think."  
"Saving your life- for a price. Have you never wondered how these sex traffickers were able to find such eager young things to work for them?" Her hands brush through Tracer's hair, teasing the delicate shell of her ears. Petting her like an animal ,and she's too need-drunk to mind. If Tracer was alone and unrestrained she'd be knuckles-deep in her cunt right now, free hand scratching both breasts red, or writhing over anything that buzzed.  
"Not really my most pressing concern right now," she admits.  
"They turned girls who would never have dreamed of debasing themselves into exposure-mad sluts... taking whatever they could, however they could... slick and deep... do you know, cherie, all of the bodies we've recovered from past hideouts have been dead of exhaustion?”  
Tracer wants to believe that she's past humiliation. Instead, the knowledge of how desperate she is, how helplessly needy, only makes her ache more. "So you're saying..."  
"I have immobilized you to prevent you fucking yourself to death. As soon as I negotiate with your team, we shall see how much your life is worth. Or…”

She swallows; the movement makes her feel even more exposed. “Or what?”

“If I leave you here, odds are your allies will find you in time to save your life.”

That would be the sensible idea. Except… it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it. Amelie was the model of propriety; lace blouses buttoned up to the collarbone, pencil skirts below her knees. The one time she touched Tracer’s face, it was an absent-minded caress, and she drew her hand back as if burnt. It was only Tracer’s secret crush that made her demure manner strangely alluring.

But Widowmaker is danger itself. Whatever Talon’s done to her, they’ve let out this seductive wildness. She’s always straddling Tracer, purring taunts into her ear. Amelie would never show so much skin; but on Widowmaker, that catsuit feels like an invitation.

Tracer may be the public face of Overwatch, but she’s also an adrenaline junkie. It’s why she volunteered to test that experimental plane, why she splits off from the pack on missions. The idea of danger makes her clit twitch and her breasts tingle, and she’s pretty sure it’s not just the sex drug. She wants to know what’s between them. To know how deep it goes.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll take my chances with you.”

***  
  
She's got a secret bank account. There are about ten thousand pounds in the fund labeled Cheeky Nandos, just in case she ever needs to provision a small army or party with the lads hardcore. At this point, Tracer would gladly hand it over. She's got the seam of her leggings lined up just right with her clit, and every subtle squirm lights up the most tantalizing shiver of pleasure. If she could just cross her legs, squeeze them together, anything-  
The sting of a slap to her clenched thigh makes her open her eyes. The well-formed assassin is a study in irate and cleavage. She's probably killed for lesser annoyances. That doesn't bother Tracer. She needs to be wrecked.  
“And were you trying to satisfy yourself in my absence?” Her tone is silken murder.  
Tracer tries to slow her breathing. "No?"  
In response, Widowmaker palms a straining nipple through the thin fabric of her jumpsuit, her expression softening to something much like amusement.  
"Yes, I mean. Fuck." She could cry when the touch stops.  
Skimming her abdomen, trailing up and down her ribcage... it's nowhere near enough. "And do you know what would have occurred had you succeeded?"  
This time she knows the answer. "No."  
A silver blade flashes in the darkness. "Stay very still, mon cherie. My knives are sharp."  
Next to this polished, composed woman, she's a desperate animal. The thought turns her on even more. _Lick her boots if she'd let me- or, fuck, hump her leg-_  
As Widowmaker peels away the delicate fabric, her thigh is inches from Tracer's crotch.  It's an agony of effort not to rut forward or tense her core. It's all so damn much.  
She peels away the sweaty fabric, exposing more of Tracer's flushed skin.  
"Good little girl." She brushes a dry kiss across Tracer's chapped pout. Her lips are so cold. Like a corpse from a morgue. Tracer wants to bury herself in that ice.  
Now she pays attention to Tracer's breasts in earnest, pinching and rolling her nipples. Her face is still that smooth, emotionless cast.  
"The shockwaves of one unsatisfying orgasm would have triggered another. Ripping through you until you squeezed your swollen flesh and begged for release."  
Tracer can feel it between her thighs now. She's absolutely fucking soaked. And every time the assassin's hands begin to inch downward, they slide back up.  
"In your pain, you might have ripped free from your bonds, pressed your pussy against that dilapidated couch. You could have rode it until it was sodden from your arousal and still have found no relief, until you were only strong enough to move your hips. Look at me-" she grabbed Tracer's hair, an electric shock of exquisite pain. "You would not have been the first girl to die in this manner, cherie."  
Even through the swirl of her arousal, potent as a heartbeat, Tracer's not stupid. She thinks: _she could have let me die_. Instead she looks up at Widowmaker, aware of her vulnerability, of the other woman's graceful control. "What am I to you?"  
That gaze skims her nude, quivering body.  
  
With no warning, she plunges three fingers into Tracer's open cunt.  
Tracer tenses in her bonds. "Fuck!" That fullness, that pressure against her inner walls- she can feel it all through her body. Can't even clench. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."  
Another pinch to her nipple. Harder. "Shut up and stay still."  
Which is when she starts drawing this absolutely unreal figure-eight over Tracer's soaked clit. It's too much. And she still needs more.  
Widowmaker still regards her; unmoved, unmoving.  
Tracer stares her right in the face. "Amelie."  
At that everything stops.  
"You will not call me by that name."  
Tracer doesn't look at the assassin’s face. She watches her breathing. And that slight rise and fall, twice in the space of seconds, tells her she's getting a rise out of her. She fucks herself against those cold blue fingers, sing-songing, "Amelie, Amelie, Amelie-"  
The loss of sensation makes her clench around nothing as Widowmaker pulls her into a punishing kiss. For a moment she writhes against the well-muscled thigh between her legs- and quick as a blink she's untied her bonds, and she’s got Widowmaker shoved against the opposite wall, caressing her cleavage above that ridiculous latex catsuit. (The thing about existing outside of time? She metabolizes drugs super-quickly. Even Junkrat’s Sleepytime Special is already burning away.)  
She snaps the elastic and lets all that silky blue-black hair tumble loose. Buries her face in it. The woman Talon made smells like jasmine and snow.  
"Amelie," Tracer murmurs against her neck.  
"You will not mention that name in my presence." There’s the slightest tremor in her voice.  
"Or what? You'll kill me?" She feels a heartbeat pulsing under those soft breasts. "If you wanted me dead, I'd be splattered across the pavement the moment you saw me coming."  
She winds her scraped hands through that luxurious hair. "I think you want this. You could see anyone dead in an instant, but I'm the only one who can make you feel alive. You keep coming after me because you know you'll lose as often as you win."  
“I would never debase myself to the act-"

“Yeah?” Tracer whispers. “Because we know, we both know…” She presses another slow kiss to Widowmaker’s chill neck, feeling the flesh heat under her touch. “You’re armed and I’m not. You could shoot me in the shoulder or the leg and flee the scene while I’m rewinding time to heal myself. Instead I know you’re going to stay.”

Her slow exhalation is the only answer Tracer needed.  
"Amelie," she says again, and pulls the zipper down.  
The rest of her is blue and lifeless, but her cunt- gloriously pink, shining with wetness.  
"And here I thought you really were an ice queen," Tracer murmurs, her fingers working at inhuman speed. "Instead you've gotten yourself all wound up, yeah?"  
Warm, too. And throbbing under her quickening touch.  
"Go to hell, you little-" but her shivery words turn into a moan as Tracer's hands blur across her skin.  
At that evidence of desire, Tracer is desperately undone, her hips seizing forward as she moves against air. But Widowmaker enters her again, four fingers pounding out a pace that’s supposed to be punishing. For Tracer, it’s bliss.  
Widowmaker's orgasm is the slightest shocked breath, but Tracer cries out as release poured through her body in seemingly never-ending waves. Nothing mattered but rhythm and friction, and she’s got those in spades. She rides out the electric aftershocks of her orgasm, letting them seep through her suddenly boneless body as Widowmaker's arousal cools against her thigh, when-  
"Adieu, cherie." Widowmaker's teeth close around her pulse point.  
Tracer realizes what’s happening a second too late. The hidden needles in Widowmaker’s incisors pierce her skin, and everything goes black. Again.

***

"Tracer?" The large hairy figure in the doorway gasps, then turns away. "Oh my goodness- this must be terribly embarrassing for you- I'm so sorry-"  
She twists the moment and teleports behind the couch, not wanting to startle Winston any more than she already has. "Yes, well, at least it was you and not Reinhardt... nothing you haven't seen before, right?"  
He lets out a long-suffering sigh, and she cracks a grin. "Thought so. Now, how about a de-briefing... and maybe some boxer briefs?"  
"I was not aware that extra garments would be required. I did find an unused sleep garment, although you may consider it inappropriate."  
"Yeah?"  
"On the front it says SLUT, and on the back it says... SLUT SLUT." The thin cotton nightgown looks even more absurd in his simian hands. "I believe it to be a manufacturing error, or possibly an attempt at some sort of play on words."  
"Sounds perfect. Hand it over." And accurate, too, she thinks.  
  
Limping, she follows Winston out of the tunnels. "So... how did you know I was here?"  
"Three hours ago, you dropped out of radio contact. At first, we attributed it to the depths of the tunnels. We tried to send a rescue party, but couldn't locate you."  
"And then?" She’s unsure how much she wants her best friend to know... or how much he knows already.  
Winston frowns. "About an hour ago, we received a message from a burner username using a Dark Web server. It gave us a set of coordinates; investigating those, we found traces of chronal energy, which eventually lead us to your location. On the way, we also found that the people in charge of the sex ring had been subdued."  
"Did they tell you who captured them?"  
"Unfortunately, they were uncooperative on that front, mainly due to being... clinically dead."  
He continues describing the mission, mentioning what Tracer already knows: lots of dead young women with strange drugs in their bloodstream, assorted paraphenelia and DNA information."  
"Did you, umm, get any other communications?"  
"What?"  
"Like, I dunno, from an unlisted number... anything else to do with me in the past few hours?"  
Winston opens his communicator and scrolls through lines of data. "Hmm. That's strange."  
Tracer tugs nervously at the nightgown's hem. "What is?"  
"An attempt at contact... but it's on one of the channels we deemed insecure, and therefore no longer use."  
Tracer wrinkles her nose, wondering if Widowmaker’s saved her life for free. "Would someone trying to get in touch know that we don't use that channel?"  
"Possibly. Then again, possibly not."  
As they emerge into the cool night air, Tracer almost laughs. That absolutely brilliant bright-purple bitch! She vows to keep an eye out for any signs of Widowmaker breaking conditioning. And, she decides as a cold wind whisks between her thighs, she'll change her stretchy jumpsuits to something with visible zippers.

“Tracer,” Winston says, helping her into the helicopter.

She blinks up at him. “Yeah?” Because that’s the lecture tone. It usually proceeds things like “Tracer, you confiscated HOW much vodka from that mafia cell?” or “Tracer, are you standing on a telephone wire?” or “Tracer, do you think it’s wise to use the power of time itself for cheap tricks?” (The answers, respectively: extreme vodka, yes, and you never said I couldn’t.)

She’s preparing herself for an anti-lecture sulk when he lets out a gentle sigh and lays a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not… keeping any dangerous secrets from me, are you?”

For a moment, she wonders if she should tell him everything.

And then he winks.

“Of course,” she replies, deadpan, as the helicopter whirrs into the air. “After all, it’s not as if we’re vigilantes wanted by multiple governments, currently flying a secret spy helicopter constructed to slip under the radar.”

He ruffles her sweaty hair. “That’s what I thought.”

As they skim towards the clouds, Tracer presses her nose against the window. She thinks she glimpses a slender lone figure standing at the very top of the Eiffel Tower; the skyline recedes too quickly to tell, but she feels like the figure nods as the helicopter ascends past.

There are a lot of maybes in the world-saving business. Sometimes, a maybe is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Night Vision by Ultraviolet:  
> "I don't need night vision/to find you in the dark."


End file.
